The Madness Challenge
by Rickard Steiner
Summary: Against the backdrop of a war weary Tamriel and as Alduin the World-Eater returns to consume the world, two Daedric Princes take what may be their last opportunity to meddle in the affairs of mortals. The competition is simple: Who can drive a mortal mad before the other?
1. A Game After Dinner

The Prince materialised with little fanfare, only a humorous little 'pop' heralding his arrival in the familiar surroundings. Not that there were many distinguishing features of the world around him; to an immortal, un-dreaming Daedra like himself, the greater part of realm he now stood in was really rather lacklustre if all one went on were looks, nothing but a formless, half-remembered landscape mired in rolling, purple mists. As usual however, the Prince was not here for the scenery. He was here for the company which lay in the immense castle that loomed half-shrouded in the gloom before him, the imposing, unfriendly façade only magnified by the fog that cloaked its form and the brilliant yellow light which glared from the large, bare windows, too harsh for anyone to look in from the outside.

As if watching him, the lights followed and illuminated the Prince as he ascended the stone steps that led up to the huge front doors, his smart black cane clattering against the stone as he went. Stopping short of pulling the chain that rang the door bell, he took time to give himself the once over. Conjuring a silver hand mirror from within the pocket of his garish, rainbow-like outfit, he checked carefully that everything was in place.

"Eyes...check. Nose...check. Nostril hair...check. Goatee..." He froze in momentary panic.

"Goatee!" The missing facial hair duly appeared on his formerly bare chin, much to his relief, and he proceeded to finish his checklist. Then, after smoothing back his oiled grey hair and picking off a few offending bits of fluff from his garb he pulled the chain.

From deep within the castle a gong resounded, its low, mellow toll giving way to higher, shimmering overtones before dissipating back into silence. For a few uncertain seconds, Sheogorath, Prince of Madness stood there, wondering increasingly whether his chamberlain Haskill had written the date down correctly in his calendar, then remembering that he had never, in fact, keep a calendar.

He need not have worried. With a harsh clack that echoed throughout the halls behind them, the mighty latch that held the doors shut was removed, and more importantly the powerful magics that were coupled with it were dispelled. With a groan, the age-blackened doors swung inward to reveal his host.

Appearing as a woman more striking and more lovely than perhaps had ever existed over the long span of worlds and planes, she stood gazing out at him, a slight smile gracing her beautiful face. Chestnut brown locks, dressed in the courtly way framed her round, unblemished face, pale as alabaster, into which were set two large, piercing blue eyes. Her body, petite and graceful was clothed in fine purple silk, a bodice that clung perfectly to her form and gave way into the luscious folds of a full skirt. At a glance plain, closer inspection revealed the most subtle of embroideries, a complex working of the finest, most delicate of filigrees whose patterning, seemed to shift and change in between glances, like oil on water. The forms were unsettling, one moment a thousand hungry eyes, a shadowy demon crouching within the folds the next. The whole outfit exuded a look of grim, corrupted beauty in contrast to Sheogorath's suitable but nevertheless vulgar get-up which would not have looked out of place on the back of a court jester.

"Vaermina!" his greeting boomed in his unmistakable, loud voice, his characteristic maniacal grim spreading over his features.

"Madgod." Her voice was smooth and dusky, and with a light gesture of her hand she ushered her visitor in, the doors closing behind him. Not wasting any time, Sheogorath reached from behind him and plucked from thin air a vivid bouquet of wild flowers native to his native plane, the Shivering Isles, and a carefully wrapped roll of cheese.

"New recipe, simply to die for!" he said, giving the cheese a little shake for attention. "Khajiit milk and alocasia. I thought we might treat ourselves to a slice or two after dinner."

"If only the other Princes were as charming as you!" replied Vaermina with approval in her voice as she took them from the Madgod. "Sanguine tries, but his attitude is too...coarse for my liking. Come, we shall eat in the lesser lounge tonight, the dining hall does not offer the intimacy I desire."

"Oho!" Sheogorath guffawed "So _that's _what you're after!" His host scowled momentarily at her guest's lapse in civility as she led him through the entry hall and up the stairs.

"Not at all. This is just an opportunity to talk between friends, nothing as untoward as that."

The distance between the front doors and the lounge that Vaermina had in mind was substantial, and the two fell into a more civil, inane conversation as they walked down the castle's sparse, torch lit passageways. Though still foreboding, the Dreamweaver's home appeared relatively comfortable, even generically boring to the Madgod, with decorations and amenities that could be found in any mundane stately home. He knew that the experience on mortals; those capable of dreaming and therefore twisting what they beheld, was a vastly more disturbing affair, disturbing enough sometimes to push terrorised minds from Vaermina's shadowy realm into Sheogorath's own maddened fold.

"You know, one day you'll have to show me what you look like to the mortal-meat, your looks are wasted on an old god like me!" Sheogorath said as they reached the final door which led into the room of choice. Despite the impoliteness of Sheogorath's words, the Dreamweaver's smile widened a little, exposing a little of her teeth. Her eyes flashed dangerously.

"After dinner."

The room that they entered was much less grandiose but more homely than Sheogorath had seen before, adorned with as many tapestries and rugs as it seemed would fit. In front of an immense stone hearth in which crackled and hissed a well stoked fire, a small wooden table was set in between two plush armchairs on which the dinner service was set immaculately. The Madgod took one seat while Vaermina placed the flowers she had been given in a suitable vase on the mantelpiece before joining him at the table with a bottle of wine that had been warming by the fire.

"I took the liberty of appropriating this from a vintner's daydream the other day. Second era 830 vintage of Dominion extraction, Shillenvale Estate. I thought it would go nicely with our meal." The ruby red wine seemed almost reluctant to leave the bottle, it was so thick. "Know of it?"

"You know, I think I do," Sheogorath started, stroking his beard in thought as he racked his incomprehensible mind for the answer.

"Wait."

It hit him, and with the sudden realisation the Madgod exploded in laughter.

"Pelagius the Third's favourite! Terrible year, his courtiers couldn't stand it but old Pelly made them drink it on pain of death. You, madam, have an excellent taste!"

And so the two Princes sat, ate and drank together, the courses served and cleared away by a lone storm atronach whom Sheogorath, a regular to the castle, often saw employed to wait on Vaermina and her guests, its swirling mass of rocks and thunderclouds a familiar sight. Dremora heart soup with home made bread was the starter, and Sheogorath, deciding that Daedra Lords could in fact be hungry, cleared his bowl with relish. It was not until the main arrived, a whole leg of Bosmer with seasoned root vegetables, cauliflower cheese and redcurrant gravy, that the conversation resumed.

"I...I wanted to share a concern with you, Madgod," began Vaermina, a look of sadness passing over her features. Sheogorath, his mouth full of roast parsnips, enthusiastically motioned to her to carry on.

"You and I both know that the end is coming, for Nirn that is." The Madgod looked up in astonishment while desperately trying to swallow some half-chewed elf in order to talk.

"What?" he exclaimed in shock after clearing his mouth, "When's this going to happen? That's...madmen talk!"

"I'm afraid that Alduin, the World-Eater will return soon. It can't be long...I can take the a hint when half the ill omens I have to do are dragon related."

"Oh. Him. He's a bit small to be eating the entire world, don't you think? I don't much rate his chances."

"Why not?"

"Mortals!" Sheogorath could not help but beam at the thought of his favourite playthings, bits of vegetable stuck in between his large, white teeth. "Every time, mortals! Every time someone throws something with enough nastiness that ought to beat them...they send them back with a wedgie! I mean, if they can defeat a four story, axe-wielding immortal demon-god, a flying lizard isn't going to be much of problem."

"This is different from the other times, Madgod."

"Is it? Is it!?"

"The Aedra won't be there to get them out of a corner this time. I don't think we or the other Princes are able to offer much in the way of help either."

"Oh. Well that might change things. Changes make things different, except when it...no...no, it always makes things different. In any case, what's your point? We'll be all fine and dandy out here." Vaermina drew in a breath.

"Well, if this whole thing comes to pass and the blasted dragon does...whatever he does, what am I going to do? I'm the Daedric Prince of dreams, Sheogorath. Without mortal minds, what am I going to do?"

"There'll be plenty of mortals left, don't you fret! I mean, look at the Isles, they're chock-o-block with them. In fact I really ought to drop some onto Execution Point when I get back. They smell of celery. And bears. It makes my toenails itch!"

"That's awfully sweet of you to offer to share..." Vaermina replied.

"Who said anything about sharing?"

"...but I'm a Daedra who craves _variety_," she finished while ignoring Sheogorath's indignant interruption. "I mean, think about it. How many madmen and women will you have under your sway _then_ as opposed to _now_?" Sheogorath opened his mouth to argue, but the thought caught hold of him and he frowned in disapproval.

"I don't much like the content of this conversation, and threatening to skip rope with your entrails doesn't mean much, so...let's have dessert!"

Vaermina sighed. "You never were one for the long term." Instinctively the atronach which had been waiting patiently in the corridor outside lumbered in, carrying a tray of sweetened scrib jelly and ice cream in its boulder-like hands. Immediately Sheogorath brightened up; jelly was his particular favourite and, as he always did upon finishing his portion, demanded seconds from the stormy butler whom, after many of the Madgod's visits, had learnt to always have a second bowl on hand which the Prince proceeded to wolf down as quickly as he had the first. His host and companion barely touched hers, waiting patiently to see what pearls of flawed wisdom her guest might offer.

Once the meal was over, Sheogorath patted his bulging belly and grinned as he spoke to his companion.

"Who is this sitting in front of me?" he said all of a sudden in a chiding, though not unkind fashion. "Vaermina, Deadric Prince of Whinging! Where's the lady I love so much? Where's the confidence? Where's the fire? Where's the arbitrary cruelty foisted on hapless sleepers?"

"My enthusiasm tends to evaporate when the whole point of my existence is threatened..." Vaermina began bitterly "...but you are right, my mad friend. I am not feeling myself."

"Well, old Sheogorath knows how to brighten up his company! How about some after-dinner games? Unless you had something planned?"

"No, not at all...what do you have in mind?"

"A challenge!" The word seemed to echo throughout the castle. "The aim is simple. Pick a mortal. Any mortal, and I'll do the same. First one to drive them off their little rocker wins! We both make hobbies from noodling with people's minds, it should be a hoot!" Vaermina looked at first unconvinced, but she could hardly refuse Sheogorath, the sheer look of enthusiasm on his face for the idea making him look like a dog waiting for a stick to be thrown. She assented. After all, there was nothing like meddling in mortal affairs to restore a Daedra's spirits, even if it were only a momentary respite from the situation fast approaching.

"I hope you will not play upon your unfair advantage as the Lord of Madness."

"Perish the thought my lady! I swear on old Pelagius' hip bone! Though you'll have to be fast in choosing...mine's already got a head start!" The Dreamweaver scowled, though in reality she was already having more fun than she had had all day.

"Who is your choice?" Sheogorath whipped out the silver hand mirror again and held it up to his host. This time however, the mirror did not reflect what lay before it, and instead Vaermina beheld the unfortunate mortal of the Madgod's choosing. The illusion was cleverly more than just a portrait. An entire tableau of Sheogorath's sordid plan washed over the flawless surface before the Dreamweaver's eyes.

"Intriguing," she said, putting the mirror down and standing up from her seat, "I think for comparison's sake I shall choose similarly, in my own way, but aren't you forgetting something?" Vaermina drew near to the inquisitive Sheogorath, who remained seated, a look of inquisitiveness on his older features and a newly returned fire in hers.

"What? The cheese? Aren't we already having enough fun?"

"I think I said," Vaermina began, her ungodly powers now beginning to course and surge angrily around her darkening form, "that I would show you what mortals see when they behold Vaermina." Her body seemed to disintegrate from the raw power, but her sultry voice remained, sweeping around the hysterical, whooping Madgod. "Don't bother getting up, Prince of Madness. You're in for quite an evening."

* * *

><p><strong>AN: I know, I know, I make lots of starts but I'm not so good at following up! I have assured those who have worried that I have an actual plan this time! As always I hope that you enjoy the read and remember to review!**

**21/11/14: (DualKatanas) - I've implemented changes to address most of your excellent criticisms. For the time being I am happy with my portayal of Vaermina though I understand your concerns. I probably will not take as much artistic licence with other non-original characters, so you can at least rest easy about it happening regularly.  
><strong>


	2. The Hunters

After a sound night's sleep, Castor awoke to the familiar morning dimness of his log cabin, the lamps unlit and the ashen heap in the hearth long since cold. For a few minutes he lay within the warm bed of furs, indulging in their soft comfort while listening to the quiet rushing sound of the rain which fell outside. He smiled, his heart full and content both in anticipation of the new day and the events which had transpired during the night. Next to him the covers stirred for a moment and then ceased. Lena slept sweetly on. That was fine. Castor never slept beyond sunrise; it was still early, so the Imperial quietly slipped out of bed and left his companion in peace.

Picking his way carefully past the gathering of empty wine bottles and dirty plates that lay in front of the fireplace, a testament to the meal that he and Lena had enjoyed the previous evening, Castor gently built up the logs and kindling in the hearth, and taking a flint and steel from the mantelpiece he attempted to set them alight with as little noise as possible. He was in luck. A small tongue of flame caught from the sparks of his second strike which slowly spread out through the kindling, licking at the firewood, trying to garner a foothold. Replacing the flint and striker, Castor glanced over his shoulder. To his relief, Lena was not roused by his efforts. Then, without bothering to put even so much as a loincloth the Imperial slipped out of the hut with nothing but a wooden bucket and cloth in hand for company.

Summer, though in full sway at the lower altitudes of central Cyrodiil, never fully arrived in the forests that clung to the foothills and slopes of the mountain ranges that defined much of the Imperial province's northern and eastern borders, and so spring showers continued to fall on Castor and his little cabin nestled cosily halfway up the Jeralls. The hunter enjoyed it. The rain was soft and cool on his bare skin as he walked down the small path which cut down to the nearby brook, and the colours of the forest, the greens and browns of leaf, fern and bark, grew deeper and more verdant as they were watered. Even the smell of the air seemed sweeter and more agreeable to Castor when it rained, as if the very earth were an afflicted man on whom balm had been applied. Having lived on that very slope for most of his life, it was part of his soul; he could not imagine a life without it.

The little stream that cascaded its way down the mountain was barely deep enough to reach his ankles, but its clear waters were fast, rushing down toward the Nibenay valley, swollen and agitated by the rainfall. The water's temperature was biting cold, but Castor had washed himself here from boyhood and it had no untoward effect on him as he cleaned thoroughly, scooping up with his hands and alternately rubbing with the cloth he had brought until he was satisfied. Once he was done, he filled the bucket from the brook and returned back the way he had come.

Lena was awake by the time Castor had returned to the hut, and he found her there as naked as he was, sat on the bed. She stood up, a small but grateful smile playing on her lips, and the two of them kissed. Castor could not help being captivated for a moment by her form as she stood there. Lena, though not tall for a Nord was still a good three inches taller than her Imperial partner, strawberry blonde hair falling freely past her shoulders, her pale figure shapely and strong before him. Her face was softer than the harder Nordic stereotype, attentive hazel eyes looking out from a bright face liberally peppered with freckles, a result of her fair complexion handling the warmer climate of her native Anvil, a port city far to the south-west.

Castor himself was nothing special to behold, and it was not something that he had ever lost sleep over. Three years younger than Lena at twenty-seven, the hunter was of average height for an Imperial, but he was remarkably broad and stocky, though this in turn belied a leanness from the simple life which he led. He was slightly swarthier than his lover, his skin tanning rather than resorting to freckles to avoid sunburn, though by Cyrodilic standards he was still paler than most. His face was not particularly attractive, square-jawed and weathered, the defining features of it being Castor's large, bulbous nose, big mouth and small, piggy brown eyes, and topped with a crop of short, light brown curls. Nevertheless, it was a friendly face that often wore the hunter's characteristic innocent smile, and such a smile beamed forth from his features as he embraced Lena, kissing her gently on the cheek as he did. For a time they just stood there wordlessly, cherishing the moment, her body sharing its warmth with his. He was tempted to ask her if she had enjoyed the night's revels, but he knew that he need not. It had been perfectly obvious at the time that both of them had thoroughly enjoyed their first experience of lovemaking.

Something unfamiliar clasped in her hand was touching his shoulder, cold and metallic and as the two parted Castor glanced at it. It was an amulet, its rough leather cord wrapped around Lena's fingers, with the talisman itself resting in the palm of her hand. It was a religious trinket, simple in design, of the kind that was ubiquitous across Tamriel and found in the clutches of believers and half-believers alike. It was little more than a plain circle of brass stamped by some monk somewhere with the symbols appropriate to one of the Eight, the pantheon worshipped widely over Tamriel. Castor could see the symbols associated with Mara, the goddess of love, glinting in the light of the fire which no crackled softly in the fireplace: the face of a woman surrounded by a circle, the space in between filled with intricate, swirling patterns.

"You never struck me as the devotional type, Lena," Castor said with a smile. "Come to think of it, I always assumed you wouldn't touch the Eight with a barge pole." Her hand closed around the amulet as if to hide it.

"Forgive a woman who's had her first time for being a little nervous," she replied, still smiling but with a slight air of disapproval at Castor's inconsiderate comment. "Do you want a baby bouncing around here in nine months?"

"Ah. Point taken. But I would probably put more faith in the potion you took last night." Castor motioned to the now-empty bottle that sat on the bedside table and thought about the knowing look the old lady at the apothecary had given him when he had sheepishly enquired about it several days ago. "I was told they're popular so I guess they work just fine."

"A little prayer now and again doesn't hurt." Castor opened his mouth to argue but thought better of it; he would rather enjoy the morning with both parties concerned in a good mood.

"I brought some water up for you to wash with," he said, changing the subject before the silence could become awkward. Kneeling, he poured the contents of the bucket into a small cauldron which he then set above the fire to warm. "I'd offer to take you down to the brook, but I don't think you'd appreciate the coldness."

"Oh please!" Lena scoffed. "You don't think I can handle a bit of chilled water? I bathe all the time in the sea back home."

"Not this water, no." Castor replied, and with an impish grin plunged his hand into the still-icy water and, without giving Lena time to second-guess him, flicked some in her direction. Caught by surprise, she recoiled in shock at the frigid barrage to the extent that Castor thought she would scold him immediately for it, but she replied with laughter, and rounding on him, delivered a playful punch to his shoulder which nevertheless made him overbalance and fall over. They continued the play-brawling for some time, tickling, poking and hitting each other with various household objects until they both lay, beaming and exhausted on the threadbare rug.

Eventually the two of them did get up. Lena took the now-soothingly warm water outside to wash with while Castor pulled on his clothes, the simple, thick garments of a Colovian huntsman. Then uncomplainingly he set about tidying up his home. By the time Lena had washed and dressed the clutter was mostly put away, the bed made and the plates, bottles and implements stacked neatly, ready to be taken down to the stream to be washed. Both sat themselves down around the small, wooden table to plan out their day. Having retrieved an old, dog-eared map from his father's old writing desk, he laid it out in front of them both while making a mental note to buy parchment the next time he was in town to make a replacement.

"How's the old man?" Lena asked, eyeing the fading initials disintegrating at the edge of the vellum. "Last you told me your aunt's family in Leyawiin were taking him in."

"Yes, I took him down about two months ago. He's well, and Claudia's children love him, but he misses being here. Leyawiin is a long way off and I think he feels a bit daunted living with so many people. The leg is recovered enough so he can get around but it's not going to be the same." Castor and Lena exchanged a saddened glance. Castor's father Verus had lived for hunting, but age and a bad altercation with a mountain lion had forced him to retire to a safer place that wasn't halfway up a mountain, away from the place he had called home for nearly all his life.

"We write to each other every week," Castor continued, "Old Sebastien at the Grey Mare in Chorrol keeps hold of the letters until I can come into town and pick them up."

"That's good of him."

"Yes, it was. My father had a few friends in the city, Sebastien was one. I swear he nearly wept when I first told him the news, and he's almost as keen to hear word from Verus as I am." There was a pause as the two of them sat for a moment, pondering quietly. Lena had only met Verus a couple of times, but Castor knew that Verus loved her as a daughter.

"So then," began Castor finally. "Do you want to go on a hunt today?"

Lena immediately brightened up. "Of course! I've never hunted this far north before, it'd be great to see how the game compares to down south."

"That suits me," Castor replied with a smile. "There are a few good spots just east of here for boar and deer," he said, pointing out his prospective route on the map with one of his large fingers. "If we're lucky we might even get a couple of elk from over the border." Lena's eyes widened in anticipation; she had never actually seen an elk before, and Castor hoped that fortune would reward her with at least a sighting of one of the impressive beasts. "Well then, we'll leave in half an hour or so when we're ready. I hope you can throw straight after all that wine last night." Lena snorted at the quip.

"You can't even shoot when sober!"

* * *

><p>Both hunters were well versed in preparing for excursions like the one they were about to embark upon, and it took them only a matter of minutes to gather their necessities together and to get into their respective outfits. Valuing the qualities of warmth and ease of mobility while preserving some nominal protection, Castor wore his suit of furs, its puffy, fur-lined contours enhancing his already broad stature so that he resembled a very wide bear. Though basic in its construction, he had made it well under the tutelage of Verus, and though he was well aware that it would not likely stand up to the tip of a bandit's sword, it was adequate to deal with the goring of a boars tusk or the teeth of a wolf. His choice of weapon was the bow. Castor had commissioned it from the fletcher in Bruma, a man of some renown in the trade, and it had been in his possession for only a month. Nevertheless it was clear to him that the craftsman's toils had been worth the considerable amount of gold drawn from his meagre savings. The bow, named Feystrike by its maker, was of a composite recurve design, light but strongly built and powerful, patterned after the Nordic fashion and tailored to match Castor's measurements. It was the first custom-made weapon that the hunter had owned; his own concoctions were more instruments of convenience, easily made from forest materials should he be caught short, and the wares of the nearer fletcher at Chorrol were well made unremarkable and mass-produced.<p>

Insulation from the elements was obviously a lesser priority for Lena than Castor in her choice of wear, the most important piece of armour that she wore being a well-fitted Imperial newtscale cuirass, a now-uncommon sight in Tamriel due to the relative scarcity of the amphibian from which the dull green scales were harvested. In terms of resilience, there was no contest between the scales and Castor's fur. Indeed the cuirass had been tested by martial combat some time before the couple had met, and Lena's report of its performance was glowing. Aside from that, the only other pieces of armour she wore were a pair of leather bracers and a pair of leather boots; her arms were bare against the mountain weather, and a thick sturdy pair of trousers kept her legs safe from nettles and insect bites but little else. Over these, she covered herself with a heavy, hooded brown leather cloak in an effort to keep some of the rain out, but Castor knew as surely as she did that it would only serve to delay moisture getting into her equipment.

Her choice of weapons was always something of a novelty to Castor. Lena favoured the throwing spear, the five steel-tipped shafts strapped over her cloak being easily as tall as she was. To increase the range at which she could strike her quarries, she carried an amentum, a simple implement little more than a strap of leather which one wound round the shaft of the weapon while simultaneously holding it in the throwing hand. Castor was unsure of the workings of the amentum, nor did he hold a particularly high opinion in general on the art of spear throwing; it seemed to him a slower, more primitive and cumbersome alternative to the bow. He knew well enough however, that in hands as skilled as Lena's these age-old weapons were formidable.

Before finally setting off into the forest, Castor and Lena did one final check of their equipment and supplies. Even though they did not plan on being out for long, neither were willing to take any chances on the slopes without at least having the basic tools for survival; Lena would be navigating unfamiliar territory and Castor had first-hand experience of falling foul of a carelessly packed bag. At the very least the two carried hunting knives, healing potions, rope and means of making a fire as well as a few dried strips of meat and a handful of berries, with a few other bits of gear shared between them. The inspection only took a moment and before long the cabin was disappearing into the greenery behind them as they headed east across the mountainside, along one Castor's familiar trails.

The Jeralls had earned a temporary reprieve from the rain, and the sun broke through gaps in the clouds and through the tree canopy into a forest teeming with life. Despite the innate caution that came with his trade, Castor could not help but be happy to be out and about in a place where he felt in his element. Lena too looked rapt with interest, taking in the new sights and sounds that her surroundings offered, stopping now and again to inspect a colourful insect or a strange mushroom but never long enough for Castor to have to slow his pace. As for conversation, the two remained content to keep talk minimal, with the odd question or explanation passing between them with regards to their environment.

They continued on their course for an hour or so, senses keen to spy out anything that might be worthy of the chase, that and making sure they themselves were not being preyed upon; Castor was all too aware that there were beasts that roamed the Jeralls that were easily large and fearsome enough to have few qualms about dining on an unwary hunter. In the event, the hours that passed were quiet and trouble-free. The fauna that they encountered were mostly small, ranging from small voles to mountain goats and a solitary wildcat, animals which were mundane to Castor but whose sightings were still a delight to Lena. The pair did notice that they were trailed for a few miles by a solitary young wolf, its golden eyes now and again visible through the undergrowth as it followed then inquisitively, though eventually it broke off quietly for reasons known only to itself. The hunters also stumbled across a large, imposing boar sow that was foraging eagerly for roots. She could well have offered a merry chase, but the cluster of small, striped piglets that soon emerged from the surrounding bushes to trot at their mother's heels made them decide not to trouble the creature, and so they left her and her offspring as they had found them.

At noon a new sound broke though the trees that made Lena stop in her tracks. From somewhere to the south, something called from far off, its tone bright and clear even at the distance that it had travelled, passing by them and echoing off the peaks high to the hunters' left. There was a moment of silence; even the birds in the branches above seemed to have stopped to listen. Then the sound repeated; this time two of whatever made the noise sounded, the two pitches distinct from each other.

"Those sounded like hunting horns," Lena said, turning to Castor for an explanation. "They must be pretty big though for something so loud."

"Imperial trumpets," Castor replied. "Used for signalling by the Legion, and yes, they're monstrous. I saw them up close once. Takes two men to carry one."

"Where's it coming from?"

"I'm not sure, I would guess either somewhere along the Orange Road or possibly even from Bruma, you can hear them from miles. The Legions mustering at Chorrol use the Road often enough and then those preparing to head for Skyrim gather at Bruma." The two shared an anxious look; to both of them, the topic of the civil war that was raging only a few miles to the north was a grim one. Word was that of three Legions so far dispatched to quell the rebellion from the south, two had returned hounded and depleted, barely fit to be called a fighting force, while the third had failed to come back entirely.

For a brief moment the two hunters stood quietly, the war weighing on their minds. Castor wanted to ask Lena what she thought about it all, about what she thought about Nords and their place in the Empire, whether she thought the conflict could be brought to a peaceful, settled end, but the topic was too solemn, and with a reassuring smile he ushered Lena to continue on with him on their journey, thereby returning gratefully to the task at hand. Neither of them heard the horns sound for the rest of the day.

By early afternoon the two were approaching the first of the sites that Castor thought would be promising for larger game, particularly elk. The clearing in the forest lay just south of a little-known pass between the mountains that separated Cyrodiil and Skyrim, and any large game from further up north were likely to come down here where there was plenty of young, fresh grass to be grazed upon. Castor and Lena took a brief rest, eating a handful of fruit and nuts which they had gathered on the walk before crouching at the edge of the clearing, just offset from its northernmost point. There they sat concealed and waited patiently, senses sharp and attentive for any sign of movement. Still the hours dragged on. The clouds which had slowly grown darker and darker could finally swell no more, and the heavens opened in a mighty downpour that drenched everything touched within seconds. Lena retreated into her cloak which seemed seemed to keep out the worst of it, and Castor did his utmost to keep Feystrike's bowstring dry, though the onslaught was such that after half an hour of being battered unyieldingly by the now blinding sheets of water, they were both soaked to the skin. Even Castor was beginning to tire of the rain and his mind began to drift toward the glowing, crackling heat of a fire in his hearth in the cabin.

Still, Castor and Lena held out doggedly until the already gloomy light began to fade. Both had just began to talk of the homeward trek when suddenly a movement in the murk nearby in the clearing silenced them. Cautiously the two peered out into the long grass, Lena readying a spear in her right hand, Castor taking an arrow from his quiver and nocking it in preparation. Whatever the creature was, its silhouette was large, larger than a deer and powerfully built. Blinded and deafened by the downpour, the animal appeared to be oblivious to the hunters' presence and was already grazing intently. Castor instantly recognised it as an elk, but he said nothing to Lena's wordless queries. Instead, they waited on until it raised its head easily higher than Castor when standing for a cursory check on its surroundings, the impressive display of antlers sprouting from its form leaving no doubt even to a wide-eyed Lena that this was what they had hoped to see. They paused until the elk had resumed its eating, then with a nod, the two of them slowly stood up, eyes bright and weapons trained on their unsuspecting quarry. Castor steadily drew back the bowstring; it was as he had feared; the linen felt soggy and limp between his fingers, but it would have to do. Instinctively, the two moved at once.

There was no time to see whose projectile had found its mark, no time to mourn the loss of a clean kill. The Elk made a shocked, high pitched yelp and in a blink of an eye its form was tearing away from its pursuers up toward the mountain pass. Castor and Lena sprang into life, sprinting as swiftly as their legs would carry them over the muddy terrain that lay between them and their quarry as they re-entered the woods, jumping and scrambling over rocks and fallen tree trunks as they went. Now back under the forest's canopy, the light was limited but the effects of the rain were lessened, and Castor could make out the dark brown form of the elk more clearly. It had put quite some distance between it and them, and the battle uphill to reach it would likely put both hunters through their paces, but it was definitely beginning to ail; though Castor saw neither spear shaft or arrow protruding from it, he could just make out a dark, grievous-looking stain on its hind quarters. Heart pumping and adrenaline rushing he and Lena continued on upward.

The forest steadily thinned the higher the chase became, trees giving way to scrub then bare, craggy rock, and rain turning to sleet, pounding and stinging Castor's face as if to drive him back from his relentless pursuit. Lena was ahead now, her cloak cast off and her armour, unlike Castor's fur, unburdened by water that had soaked in. Even in the heat of the moment Castor could not help but watch with admiration of his partner, darting among the boulders as agile as a hare, powering after her prey like a mountain lion. The elk was slowing now, barely cantering and breathing heavily. The gap was closing, but still it pressed on for all its life was worth up into the pass from which it had came on its ill-fated venture.

The winds so far up were strong and savaged Castor and Lena as they followed the elk, though it soon abated in the relative shelter of the pass, moaning overhead as if to lament what was about to happen. Nevertheless the hunters too were starting to slow, whittled down to a jog and panting in their efforts to keep up. They knew, however that their prey would likely not last long, it was coming to the point where the elk would either collapse from exhaustion and blood loss or turn around to stand its ground. They couldn't see it now; the pass was winding and its grey walls blocked their sight forward, and neither hunter wished to be caught out by a prospective set of scything antlers around the next bend, and so the two slowed to a walk to catch their breath and proceeded carefully, following the droplets of blood which had fallen upon the ground.

Corner after corner they took carefully, but still there was no sign of the elk. The trail reached its highest point and began to descend; Castor and Lena had passed from Cyrodiil into Skyrim, but still their quarry eluded them. Finally however, the two could hear sounds in front of them round the next bend and stepped out carefully. Even wounded, any animal of this size was dangerous while it still drew breath.

What they saw made Castor and Lena freeze. The elk lay dead some twenty yards in front of them. Its killer stood hulking over the corpse, its white hair matted with blood and its three eyes staring greedily back at them.

"Frost troll."

The colour drained from Castor's face. Trolls and frost trolls were perhaps the worst creature one could hope to stumble upon in the wild, and he himself had had the good fortune to never have had a run-in with one. He knew the tales though. These burly, humanoid creatures were faster than they looked, easily able to move at an unnerving pace enough to catch up with a fleeing huntsman. Their attacks were brutal, smashing bone and crushing organs with the pummelling of their massive fists. Worse still, they were resistant to poisons and they were notorious for their innate ability to heal wounds quickly. A troll was a huntsman's worst nightmare.

The beast before them bellowed hatefully at the two interlopers and began to smash the ground with its fists, its entire upper body going into the action. Even through the solid granite of the mountain Castor could feel those blows through his feet. He took aim right for the troll's middle eye. He was about to let loose when he felt Lena place a hand on his arm.

"Wait!" She whispered. "I've seen this before, it's a threat display. It wants us to back off...let's just go. The elk isn't worth it." Castor nodded in agreement and the couple retreated slowly away from the troll and its spoils, painstakingly ensuring that none of their moves were sudden. Unfortunately for them, Castor and Lena heard a sound that made the bottoms of their stomachs drop; a feral bellow and the dull thud of massive fists on stone. The difference was that this time it was coming from behind them. Castor glanced over his shoulder, and sure enough a second frost troll was there, looking even angrier and more agitated than the first.

"See anywhere to run, Lena?"

"Not behind us. Pass is too narrow, walls are too steep to scale. I think our best chance is to get past the first one. Hopefully they'll be too busy fighting over the carcass to chase us." Castor agreed. He didn't like the idea, but it was better than anything he could think of.

"Alright. We'll get as close to it as possible. I'll put an arrow into it and then we just run. Ready?"

"Ready." Castor and Lena slowly edged forward, back toward the frost troll which was now occupying itself with trying to tear a leg off the cadaver. Inch by inch they closed until they were only ten yards or so from it and it suddenly looked up at them, surprise quickly dissolving into rage at the interruption. Castor didn't give him time for so much as a noise. Even with his compromised bow, he couldn't miss at that range and the arrow struck true into the creature's neck. Again, the two hunters did not wait for a response and they bolted past the wounded animal before what had happened had even sunk into its tiny mind. Somewhere behind them it let out an ear-piercing roar, the likes of which Castor had never heard before and which he never desired to hear again as he half sprinted, half stumbled out of the pass and down the steep, almost sheer northern slopes of the mountain.

It wasn't enough, however. Looking behind him as he ran, he could see both frost trolls loping after them both, the distance closing quickly. Hunter had become hunted. Castor realised grimly that he was unlikely to survive this fateful trip. He made his decision. Gritting his teeth, Castor skidded to a standstill. Once again, Lena had outrun him, and it was his hope that she was far enough ahead to not have seen him stop, but he had not the time to ensure this. He was already concentrating on lining up on the nearest troll with Feystrike. The arrow missed; he would only have time for one more shot before they creatures would be upon him. His next attempt was barely with any aim, but the arrow flew true and struck its target squarely in the belly. Once again the beast shrieked in furious agony, making Castor wince as his ears jangled with pain. Dropping Feystrike, he drew the knife out from his belt and braced himself for impact.

To Castor's surprise, something strange happened instead. Both of the pursuing trolls stopped in their tracks. There they stood, the nearest barely a stone's throw away from him, their breath frosting in the chilled Skyrim air, their ears pricked, their ugly, savage faces looking almost bemused, the fury that had inhabited them evaporated in an instant. Castor held his breath, waiting for the end to come, for one of them to decide to take a swing at him, but neither of them so much as moved a muscle. Finally, without so much as a snort the foul pair picked themselves up and raced off past him as if he were invisible, seemingly even faster than they had chased the hunters. For a moment Castor watched them disappear into the pine forest that lay lower down in the valley in amazement.

Then he heard it. A low rumbling at first, only just audible to the ears. Castor looked around to try and find its origin. His eyes settled upon the summit of the mountain that towered above him, and they widened in horror. The troll's roar echoing up to the snows that capped the peak all year round had disturbed them, and now they were moving, beginning to lose their grip on the rock beneath them, and soon enough the hunter was staring at a full blown avalanche crashing down inexorably toward him. He turned to run but it was too late. The debris swept the hunter up in its wake as it plunged on its way downward. The sound thrashed at Castor's eardrums as he went, and he felt like he was being pummelled all over by a whirlwind of hammers, but his mind was remarkably still. He felt keenly a regret that he had not gotten the chance to say goodbye to the woman he loved.

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><p><strong>AN: Not much really to say about this one, other than it's the most I've written in years in one go. Once again, please leave feedback if you feel inspired to as I really need it in order to grow as a writer on here!**

**07/12/14: (DualKatanas) - Your suggested word change made and the story summary has been revamped. In answer to your question, Lena is indeed a professional hunter, easily as much as Castor is.  
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